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Love Means Never Having to Carry Prada

Here’s a tip for the younger gents out there, still finding their way on the rocky and treacherous road to love. This is from personal experience, mind you, so pay attention — I hardly ever get kicked in the crotch at company picnics and fancy dinner parties any more, so I must have learned something along the way.

(Actually, I just never get invited to company outings anymore. Or any event involving cutlery, for my own protection. I still wear the protective cup to the dinner table, though. Old habits die hard.)

“You’re either in for a makeover, a castration, or she’s planning to cut out a kidney and leave you in a bathtub full of ice. And you do not want a makeover.”

Anyway, here’s a small piece of advice for you guys who find yourselves in the heady early days of a budding romantic relationship. It’s a sure-fire way to avoid icky obligations, get out of (mild) trouble, and win a point once in a while without a chest-thumping, hair-pulling, finger-waggling fight.

(Unless that’s the kind of fight you prefer. Most people like to save their chest-thumping and finger-waggling for the make-up sex. But I can’t tell you how to live.)

Let’s set the scene — say you’re sitting on the couch, resting comfortably in your favorite assdentation with a nice beer, watching a baseball game. And suppose your special girl breezes into the room — radiant and glowing like a perky little angel, no doubt — and says:

‘Do you want to come to the mall with me, honey pie?‘

Men, be warned. This is a trap. Most of you are way ahead of me here, but for the dumb jocks in the crowd, I’ll spell it out:

There’s nothing for you at the mall. Yes, there’s a sporting goods store, and a place to buy CDs, and staring at the lingerie mannequins is a lot of fun. But those are not luxuries afforded to you while ‘shopping with the woman’. She’s asking you to be her personal bag-carrier for the next three hours. One of those bags might even be her purse. Fear the purse-holding nightmare! Fear it!

(Also, be warned that the ‘sweeter‘ the invitation to hit the mall sounds, the more horrific the torture she’s planned. ‘Honey pie‘ is three hours of shoe shopping. ‘Baby doll‘ involves dresses, and possibly waiting while she gets a manicure.

And if she ever calls you ‘lovey sweetiekins‘, run. You’re either in for a makeover, a castration, or she’s planning to cut out a kidney and leave you in a bathtub full of ice. And you do not want a makeover.)

Clearly, you have to say ‘no’. But you can’t just say ‘no’. Then you’re the bad guy. You, who only wanted to spend a Sunday afternoon getting loaded and re-calculating David Ortiz’ on-base percentage after every at-bat, would somehow be at fault for refusing to carry six Macy’s bags and a pair of kicky black heels all over a godforsaken parking lot in the middle of suburban fricking nowhere. It hardly seems fair.

And indeed, it isn’t fair, men. But what can we do? The deck is stacked against us. The women hold all the breasts in these negotiations; we’ve got very little ground to stand on. That’s where the ‘butiloveyou’ trick comes in. Someday you’ll thank me for this.

Here’s what you do: look up at your lady friend. Gaze deep into her limpid pools.

(Hey, hey — that means her eyes, sparky. Up there. If she catches you sneaking a cleavage peek, this is never going to fly. Work with me here.)

Look deep into your lover’s eyes; give her your full attention. I know, I know — Derek Jeter’s up with two men out; it’s very exciting. This is an investment we’re making here. One at-bat, in exchange for an afternoon free of questions like, ‘Do these sandals make my ankles look fat?‘ Focus. You can do this.

As you meet your cheery lady’s gaze, try to look a little desperate. Not upset, not exasperated — you’re shooting for ‘deer in headlights’ here. Imagine yourself sitting in Ann Taylor with fourteen skirts and a smoking credit card. That ought to do it.

Then, just as she’s about to speak, to explain the wonderful, magical treasures that await you at your local mall, look sad — just a little sad — and say:

‘But… I love you.‘

The emphasis here is very important. Hesitation, hopelessness on the ‘but’. Deep, intense feeling and sincerity on the ‘love’. Heavy emphasis on ‘you’ — pleading, but not whiny. It’s a delicate balance. But delivered correctly, it’s devastating. A spontaneous, passionate, and obviously heartfelt expression of love and tenderness that your love will treasure forever. It’s beautiful.

Plus, you might not have to go to the shopping mall. So it’s really beautiful.

You have to be careful, though. This technique only works two, maybe three times, max. Try ‘butiloveyou’ after that, and you’ll hear:

‘Yeah, whatever, chumpy. Take my purse and warm up the car. Those Old Navy sweaters aren’t gonna try themselves on.‘

Also remember, ‘butiloveyou’ only works for little things, like trips to the mall or taking out the trash. Choose your moment. This is not going to get you out of hot water if you’ve blown the rent money on Lotto tickets, or accidentally mooned her grandmother.

(Yes, it’s possible that an ‘accidental mooning’ could happen. And I’ve got the hung jury to prove it.)

Above all, for the love of god, don’t forget who you’re talking to when a ‘butiloveyou’ moment comes around. You never want to have this conversation at the office:

Boss: Hey, Ted’s out today, so I need you to deliver his report.

You: But… I love you.

Boss: …

You: I mean, um… *ahem*, ‘report’, sir?

Boss: Did you just…?

You: No. No, sir, I didn’t.

Boss: Because it sounded like you did.

You: Nope. Not me.

Boss: Because that would have been very sweet.

You: Well, in that case–

Boss: And astoundingly creepy.

You: Ah. I see. Ted’s report, then?

Boss: Right here. Ten am sharp. And don’t call me ‘snookums’ in the staff meeting. People will talk.

It’s powerful mojo, you see. Use it wisely, kids.